


The Fairytale Fallacy

by LadyWolf13



Series: Broken Souls [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Adult Content, Alternate Ending, Angst, Canon Divergence, Course Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kidnapping, Littlefinger - Freeform, Lord Baelish, Love Story, POV, Past Abuse, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Romance, Sex, Winterfell, sansan, the hound, whorehouses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWolf13/pseuds/LadyWolf13
Summary: After being captured by Littlefinger, Sansa is quickly beginning to learn that not all her beloved stories are as they seem...Sandor is no knight. Can he still save her?
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Broken Souls [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525739
Comments: 21
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well...here it is! Part 3 of Broken Souls, first chapter. If you haven't read Parts 1 & 2 you can read this and will probably still make sense but be warned if you do go back...they are heavy on the smut/raunchy stuff. I was clearly going through a phase (lel) but I can be fluffy, cute and have a plot too okayyyyyyyyyyy?! 
> 
> I'm hoping to make this another 5 Chapter part but with a lot higher word count. I gotta say this story was always the end goal for Broken Souls from the day I started writing it. I'm not sure why or how Part 2 even happened but it did and now we here lol. Hope you enjoy! As always comments and feedback are most appreciated :)
> 
> Warning for major character death cause I’ve mentioned book and TV show canon for the Starks. RIP to my fave fam 😭

Sandor awoke suddenly, heaving for breath. This was the third night in a row now that he had dreamt of Sansa, and the horrible fate that undeniably awaited her. Not knowing what would or had become of her was slowly killing him. He could not shake it. Guilt ate away at him constantly. The little bird had trusted in him to take care of her (sort of), to take her back to her family…and it had all gone to shit. The great bulk of a man breathed out a frustrated sigh as he remembered the events from the tavern that night. Several moons had passed and still he had not managed to find her and that Little Fucker. Petyr Baelish. Fucking little maggot. His lip curled in anger as he remembered how frightened she looked with his sleazy arm wrapped around her as he dragged her away. It made his skin crawl to think about the Little Fuck touching her. 

He rolled uncomfortably in his blankets, the makeshift bed he'd made for himself was not quite the same without the little bird dozing nearby. The last night they’d spent together he’d even fallen asleep wrapped in her dainty little arms, face nuzzled against the softness of her neck. It was the best night sleep he’d ever had. A lot had happened since that night at the tavern. Sandor visited many inns, not giving a fuck about the reward going around for his return to King's Landing. Let them have him. Not that any of them were a threat to him anyway. The only thing he truly feared was fire… _and losing her_ , he realised with a stab to his chest. He rolled over violently in the bedroll, a foul temper rising. How the fuck had his life come to this? He could be well on his way to Braavos by now, make a decent living as a sellsword instead of stalking inns and living off mauled rabbits every other day. 

He couldn't help it though…the little wolf had changed him. In an uncomfortable, oddly hopeful sort of way, she had given his life meaning and purpose again. He inwardly cringed, it was pathetic he knew. An old dog pining after a beautiful and honourable Lady. After Gregor tortured him in that fire all those years ago, he had lost all innocence and unknowingly given up any chance of happiness in life. He merely just existed. Stuck to what he was good at, which was killing. Killing made him feel good because it made him numb. The numbness stopped him from having to feel any emotions. Yes, killing combined with a good sour red, and a willing woman (admittedly he had always had to pay for sex, and even then they weren't that willing). That was what he was good at – fighting, fucking and drinking. Somehow over the years the numbness these actions brought became his only constant, and that was how he got by; burying his pain in at all. 

But setting eyes on Sansa Stark that day, everything had changed. Not all at once, that was for sure. At first, it had been pure fascination and lust. Even before she had flowered, the girl had been stunning. Sandor had been captivated by her beauty and way she carried herself. She was such a proper little lady. It warmed his cold, dead heart that he thought had frozen over long ago. She sparked an emotion in him, but after years of doing his best to block all feeling he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. All he knew was that it never left. At first he had watched her from afar, never quite feeling up to striking a conversation with her. What the fuck would he say to her? She was a young, beautiful highborn lady of the wealthy House Stark and he was an old, scarred bitter dog, not far above being born in Flea Bottom. Or in his opinion anyway, the things that had happened in Clegane’s Keep…it was a dishonourable House and he did not view it in a favourable light. Despite this, she had reminded him of himself as a child in a way, before the fire. So innocent, her head full of stories about knights and their honour and ladies at court. Still, he sneered and leered at her and made fun of her songs. Gods, he had been awful. While his underlying intentions had been well meaning in his eyes (for her to grow up, and see the world how it really was), he came off as a cruel, mean bastard. He had frightened the living shit out of her most days for the first few years of their…relationship? If you could call it that. 

But as time went on at court, Sandor came to find himself incredibly drawn to the girl. He often lapsed, especially after drinking. He still inwardly cringed about the very first night it happened; getting blind drink and deciding it was a good idea to start with telling her about his cunt brother. That had been followed by hesitant, pitying glances from the girl without ever actually looking upon his face. Being the short-tempered dog he was, this only led to more cruel remarks and grabbing the girl’s chin to force her to look at him and upon his scarred features. _Not exactly a sweet-talker,_ Sandor reflected bitterly. The little bird had still been frightened of him even after he saved her from those cunts during the bread riots…to her credit she had tried to thank him afterwards, but Sandor could still smell the fear on her. It infuriated Sandor to see she was almost as frightened of him as she was of a pack of rapists, so he again retorted with the only thing he knew and loved: killing. He had tried to talk some sense into the girl…tried. Tried. There was a lot of things he had tried with her over the years, he thought with a pang of guilt. The night of the Battle of the Blackwater flashed before his eyes. Pinning her down. Tasting her…gods. She had even sang for him, sweet little bird. If he had any previous experience of relations with a woman, he might even dare to think she had enjoyed being with him that night and the following days after he took her from King’s Landing. He shook his head angrily, cursing himself for even thinking of such things. She could be dead for all he knew, and it was all his fucking fault for being a greedy dog and taking her away from King’s Landing that night. He sat up and spat in disgust, slowly gathering his belongings to set off again. He knew no sleep would come to him tonight.

As the months dragged on since Sansa had been taken, Sandor had come close to giving up, especially when each inn proved more worthless than the last. He needed information. Inns contained a lot of drunken sods that love to talk. They're full of talkers. Sandor had heard a lot over the passing months, but nothing that would lead him to find her. He had heard things that he hoped were not true for the little bird's sake. The death of Robb Stark and her mother. Her other two younger brothers murdered by that strange cunt Theon Greyjoy. Arya the little wolf bitch nowhere to be found. He didn't think it were possible, but his heart ached for her. He knew what it was like to lose your family. It pained him to think of how she'd be now, losing so many of them so quickly and only having the Little Fuck to comfort her. With a roar of frustration, Sandor again packed up his camp in the middle of the night, frightening Stranger into a gallop to continue North. He figured that would be the only place Little Fuck would be heading, perhaps towards Riverrun where Sansa’s uncle resided. To be true he had no idea where they could be, for as much as he had heard talk of just about every other fucking Stark, there was no word on the little bird. _Or perhaps he’d taken her further,_ he thought with an ugly snarl, up to The Fingers, the piece of shite lands belonging to the Little Fuck family. _Bunch of fuckers_. The little bird belonged in Winterfell, her true home. And Sandor was determined to get her back there. 

**********************************************

Sandor entered the inn, his tall and menacing demeanour able to turn heads even without the presence of his horribly scarred features. Sandor grunted in pleasureless amusement. _Not the most conspicuous prick in Westeros._ Nonetheless, he strode to the bar to order three wine skins - after weeks of riding he had developed quite a thirst. He found a shabby corner of the inn to sit back and observe, intending to listen to what the drunken cunts had to say this far up North and hoping the travel would be worth his while. He had made it to this shitty tavern on the outskirts of the Bloody Gate, just shy of The Eyrie where he suspected the Little Bird may be…surely someone would know the whereabouts of Little Fucking Finger. 

Sandor took a large gulp, letting his eyes adjust to the darkened room and sharpening his hearing. A flustered whore came bustling past, her busty frame heaving. A drunken man with a long white beard slapped her on the arse as she passed and she looked back, throwing him a startled look. Sandor saw she was only very young. An older, scantily dressed woman grabbed her by the arm. 

‘What are you doing down here, girl?’ she hissed to the younger one. ‘You were asked for upstairs…they’re paying more up there. You don’t want to displease him. He doesn’t visit the smaller whorehouses very often being the busy man he is. We’ve only got tonight to show our worth, so get up there!’ The young whore gasped and nodded before frantically bounding up the stairway. 

This interaction got Sandor’s attention at once. He smirked, tonight hadn’t taken long at all to finally get some valuable fucking information. The long journey had been worth it after all. The running of a whorehouse at the top of a shitty, run down tavern in the North…it reeked of the just the filthy Fucker he was looking for. He downed another large gulp of wine, his blood turning hot with the thought of Sansa being up there. Would he be making her part of his service? Charging more for the beautiful Lady of the North? Surely not. She was a highborn lady for god’s sake. He gritted his teeth, who knew what that Little Fuck would do and had been doing. That’s if it even was him upstairs, he thought with a sinking feeling in his gut. Mayhap it was just wishful thinking; it wasn’t as if whorehouse management was a particularly rare occupation in Westeros. Sandor eyed the older woman who was still hovering at the bottom of the stairs, grinning and winking at potential clients. Only one way to find out. 

He got up slowly and approached the woman, ignoring her gasp and frightened step back. He continued towering over her, furrowing his brow as he reached down and grasped his coin purse. He opened it for her, revealing some copper pennies and a Silver stag. It had been many moons since King’s Landing and his last tournament; he was beginning to run quite low. Despite this, the wench gave a tiny nod of approval and gestured for him to follow her upstairs. At the top of the landing, she came to a holt and turned back to face him. She spoke to his feet, which annoyed Sandor. Women could not bring themselves to look at his face. He supposed he should be used to it by now, but after months on the road he had somehow become blissfully unaware of his effect on others. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as an unfamiliar fear plagued him. Would the little bird be frightened of him too after so long apart? Her gaze was the only woman’s he cared for. 

‘My Lord, please wait here. Shanaya will be with you shortly.’ She made to turn and disappear behind one of the three doors. Sandor quickly grasped one of her shoulders and tried to think how to word his demand.

‘Shanaya…hmm.’ He let his gaze roam over her chest as he squeezed her shoulder. ‘Might be I’m wanting you instead,’ he rasped. Sandor saw her eyes widen in dismay. _There’s a shock._

‘I…I-I’m not…my services are used differently here, Ser,’ she spluttered. Sandor embodied The Hound by letting out a ferocious growl. The mature woman cowered, her knees buckling as she braced for an impact that did not come. 

‘Aye?’ The Hound spat. ‘Who decides that, then? I’m paying good coin, I should be able to fuck who I want.’ He kept his voice loud and booming, hoping to lure the little rat out of his hiding. There was the sound of a glass breaking and rustling in one of the nearby rooms. Sandor fought to hide his smirk. This was going exactly how he wanted. Realising he was not going to hurt her, the woman straightened and looked up at him anxiously. Sandor could practically hear her mind working; men demanding her over the younger girls clearly was not a regular occurrence. 

‘You’re quite right, Ser,’ she began nervously. Sandor’s mouth twitched, she was obviously a good businesswoman. ‘You should be able to have whoever you like,’ she placated, stealing a second glance at his face. ‘If it please you, I will speak with the owner of the establishment and be with you shortly.’ At this, she began to turn on her heel a second time. Blood boiling with the thought of killing and wine rushing through his veins, Sandor roughly grabbed the back of her hair, yanking her backwards and slapping a large hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. 

He was quiet as he rasped into her ear exactly what was going to happen next.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a shorter chapter to keep things going...I've been sick lately and haven't been able to write as much :( 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of rape/sexual content/language - a large part of this chapter is from Littlefinger's perspective...until it's not. Hope you guys like the fate I've given him 😈

Littlefinger groaned as his little whore’s mouth engulfed his cock hungrily, sucking hard as her hand grasped the remaining shaft and pulled. Shanaya certainly was worth her coin, he smirked as he fondled one of her breasts. He sighed, sitting back in his chair as her head bobbed up and down. This establishment would be staying…he thought greedily. This girl knew how to please a man. 

Loud, thundering footsteps caused him to open his eyes in annoyance. Hmm, they would need to work on sound proofing the rooms. After his establishment in King’s Landing, he had a reputation to uphold. Petyr Baelish provided only the finest service and furnishings. A loud, booming voice caused him to sit up straight, pushing Shanaya off his lap in the process. She fumbled, and knocked over a small table that was holding his drink. The glassed crashed to the floor and shattered. 

‘Idiot girl,’ he hissed, face contorting in anger. The anger on his face did not match the panic he felt in his chest at hearing that voice. He knew that snarl from anywhere. His mind worked frantically…it couldn’t be. They had killed The Hound over a year ago, perhaps it was his brother? In this instance, Petyr wasn’t sure who would be worse – The Mountain, or The Hound who he had left for dead after taking away Sansa Stark. Clegane had been a wild beast that night, Petyr reflected with a shudder. He didn’t know what that brute had been doing with her in the first place…he didn’t have the brains to know just how valuable she was, so that can’t have been why he captured her. He had noticed the dog drooling over her throughout the years in court, perhaps he was lovesick, Petyr thought with a smirk. Love…lust…it was an easy emotion for a regular man to confuse, let alone a Clegane. 

He grimaced, waiting for the burst of a door that did not come. Hmm…perhaps Maggie had kept the great beast at bay. She was another fine asset. She may have been older and less… _enticing_ , but she made a damn good businesswoman and that was the kind of woman he needed in charge here after he left. Petyr scoffed, how typical of The Hound wanting to fuck his least attractive girl. He shrugged, relaxing back in his chair and motioning for Shanaya to continue her good work. 

She grinned wickedly at him as she gripped his now softened cock. He returned the grin slowly, how nice a change this one was compared to the prudish Sansa Stark. Just like her mother she was, enticing him with her beauty giving him the hope of something more…using all her pretty words on him like the Lord he was. He groaned as Shanaya took him in her mouth again, and he once again leaned back in his chair, picturing Sansa’s pretty pink tongue on his cock instead. He had to suppress a giggle, he supposed she would be doing that for her new husband now. What would poor Tyrion say of her adultery? _Fools. The lot of them._ None had seen into his little game, not that he’d expected them too of course. Of all the things he had accomplished in his life, his ability to manipulate others, particularly great Houses and entire courts was what he was most proud of. 

And the Lady Sansa had played her part well, of course. What was it that Cersei used to call her? _Little dove_ …yes dutiful little Sansa Stark always did what she had to. For the sake of the realm. She would make a great Queen one day…when she was finally his. Oh, how he longed for that day. He had been quite impressed with his restraint with the girl over the many months they spent travelling together. There had been many a time he thought about pinning her down and having his way with her, the weak little dove would surely have obliged quite easily. That was the funny thing about power, though. He valued it over sex. So much so it gave him patience even with the beautiful Lady Stark. The daughter of the love of his life. For his plan to work to gain overall power, he needed her to trust him…and he was hardly going to get that by forcing himself on her every other night. No…the girl was the key to the North, and he had now secured a large chunk of it in her recent marriage. 

All of a sudden, a door burst open breaking Petyr’s thoughts. Sandor Clegane had Maggie by the scruff of the neck, a thickly muscled arm unsheathing his dagger. His eyes wildly scanned the room, searching for something before falling on Petyr Baelish, who was slowly raising two arms as a peace offering. 

‘Easy now, Hound. Release Maggie,’ he ordered calmly. Sandor roared, rattling Maggie by her hair before shoving her aside. She screamed as she ran forward to Shanaya, collapsing into her. 

‘Fuck your orders, you little piece of shit! Where’s the girl?’ The Hound’s eyes gleamed wildly; Petyr couldn’t help but flinch. He composed himself quickly as he retorted, ‘It’s really none of your business, Clegane. You should have never taken Lady Stark to begin with. You’re lucky to still be alive, with half of Westeros looking for you.’ Littlefinger finished his statement with a little smile, his eyes calculating as he tried to plot a way out of this. In the corner of his eye, he noticed a small candle burning on the same table his drink had been. If only he had someway of reaching it, maybe he could toss it at The Hound before making a quick getaway. He eyed the size of the flame again, heart sinking. _Unlikely._

‘I don’t give a fuck about what I should and shouldn’t have done!’ Sandor snarled, eyes still scanning the room. He seemed to be under the impression Petyr was hiding the girl somewhere in the room, which Petyr used to his advantage to take a swift step closer to the door. 

Clegane chuckled darkly, his eyes were still scanning the room but he appeared not to have missed the movement. ‘Don’t think you’re escaping me a second time, Little Fuck. Now I’m going to ask you again, _where is the girl?_ ’ Seemingly convinced Sansa was not to be found in the room, the huge man now strode forward, locking eyes with the smaller man as he grasped him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. 

Littlefinger’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes popped a little as Sandor tightened his grip around his neck. It gave Sandor immense pleasure, and he grinned madly as he rattled the Little Fucker like a rag doll. He could hear the two girls whimpering behind him, but it did nothing to quell his temper. He had waited too long to find this arrogant prick, and now Sansa wasn’t even here. It ate at something deep inside of him. Disappointment? Longing? Fear? _Gods, he needed to find her._

Littlefinger reached up and clawed pathetically at his arm, he loosened it to allow the fucker to breath. _For now._ Petyr gasped, never quite losing that obnoxious cunty smirk of his. It unnerved Sandor. 

‘You really didn’t think me selfish enough to keep her for myself, did you Clegane?’ His voice was barely above a whisper. Sandor said nothing, quickly losing patience. ‘Oh no, no…I’m much cleverer than that you see. If you just be a good dog and put me down, I’ll tell you everything.’ He patted Sandor’s sleeve as if to make a point. Sandor gritted his teeth, he didn’t believe a word this little cunt said but he dropped him to his feet nonetheless. Maybe being civil was a better way forward after all, he thought, not sure who he was becoming as his anger subsided. He could almost see Sansa’s face lighting up at his change in actions, it made his stomach twist in a pleasant way. 

Littlefinger took a step backwards, straightening his robe with a pleased expression. ‘Now, Clegane…the Game of Thrones is a dangerous and cunning game, as I’m sure you understand. People have their parts to play. So we hunted you and Lady Sansa, taking her that night in the tavern and leaving you there to die. I trust that you can see reason and forgive me. Possibly even join me. Sansa Stark has a key role in this game, and after incorporating her into my strategy...I'm winning.’ He slowed his words, smugly looking up at the man towering over him. Sandor felt his heart begin to race, a fist curling as he braced himself for whatever the sadistic fuck had done to the little bird. 

‘Spit it out, you whoreson.’ 

Littlefinger’s eyes gleamed eerily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, with Ned Stark dead and The Young Wolf making so many enemies before his untimely death…naturally, I had to form an alliance with The Boltons.’ Littlefinger could not control it now, his face broke into an evil grin. ‘Sansa Stark and Ramsay Bolton. I hear it was quite the wedding at The Dreadfort.’ 

Sandor had heard enough. Rage consumed him as he let out a murderous roar, grabbing Littlefinger by the back of his head. He dragged him by his skull to the nearest wall and slammed the Little Fuck’s face into it repeatedly. One of the women screamed and ran from the room as blood spurted everywhere, splashing across Sandor’s face as he continued. _Killing. The sweetest thing there was. Especially butchering this little cunt._ Panting from the exertion, Sandor knew Littlefinger was dead but he continued, for as long as he was smashing his head against his wall he didn’t have to feel. 

_Ramsay Fucking Bolton._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor meets Ramsay at The Dreadfort in hopes to save his little bird...
> 
> Apologies in advance for Ramsay. He is his own warning!

Sandor rode Stranger harder than he’d ever rode in his life. The Dreadfort was still leagues away, and he’d wasted enough time already. His bad leg ached from gripping Stranger for hours on end, it had never been quite the same since Littlefinger’s men had outnumbered him that night and taken Sansa. _Sansa, gods._ Sandor didn’t think much of the gods, but he prayed to the Seven she was still alive. 

The Boltons were infamous even in the South for their manic forms of torture and killing. They reminded him of his brother, and from what he’d heard of Ramsay they would be an even match for each other with the pleasure they took from their torture. Even if she were still alive, he shuddered to think the state she might be in being married to that vile creature. 

He might not be a good man, he thought bitterly, but this old dog would treat her better than any of the cunts she’d had to endure in her short life. If he ever got her back, he’d make sure no one would ever be able to hurt her again, no one would touch a feather on her pretty little head. _I’m so sorry, Little Bird._ A rush of hot, angry tears threatened to spill as he ached remembering she had trusted him to protect her. _A child’s innocence._ He knew what it felt like to have that ripped from you. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the shooting pain running up his thigh as he dug it in further to Stranger, hastening him. 

*********************

The morning sunlight streamed through the castle windows as Sansa rolled over in the large four poster bed. She smiled in her sleep, she was back in Winterfell and it was glorious. Arya running around being a nuisance as usual, firing off arrows and training in secret when she was _supposed_ to be doing her needlework with her and Septa Mordane. Rickon and Bran racing around arguing over whose direwolf was faster. Oh, and _Lady_. Sansa grinned in her sleep, stroking Lady behind the ears just as she liked. Robb and Jon practiced their archery skills, each taking a turn as mother and father looked on. Even Theon was there, with his usual cocky grin. 

Sansa looked around the courtyard, taking it all in as she strutted forward. Everything was as it should be. She felt so happy and content. Her eyes fell upon a huge man with striking scars that covered half his face. _The Hound. Sandor._ He wasn’t dressed in his usual armour from the Kingsguard however, he was dressed in Northern attire. The furs suited him quite nicely, Sansa observed with a smile. She noticed with a shock that he also wasn’t wearing his usual scowl, but rather a smile was curved on his lips as he looked upon a group of young men training with wooden swords. Every so often he’d bark an improvement or a strategy, his sharp tone causing the boys to jump and adjust their position immediately. 

Sansa continued to observe in a haze, admiring the way Sandor looked in his woollen cloak, his muscular back and shoulders lurking underneath. How could she ever have been frightened of him? In that exact moment, Sandor locked eyes with her and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. It was the absence of anger in her eyes that took her breath away. The familiar, angry grey eyes were no longer there. They were still steel sharp, but they were filled with…he looked _happy._ Sansa’s heart soared as if all her prayers had been answered. Not breaking their gaze, Sandor began to walk towards her. He got halfway across the courtyard, reaching out his arms as Sansa took a few strides towards him before breaking into a full sprint. 

She woke up before reaching his warm embrace. A sob escaped her throat as her reality came back to her. This was not Winterfell, and her family was gone. Sandor was gone. 

She was married to Ramsay Bolton. Even his name caused a chill to come over her in the bed. After he was done with her in the evenings, he at least left her alone in her chambers. Ramsay was not the affectionate type. She thought being betrothed to Joffrey had been bad. _Silly little girl._ Being married to Ramsay was a living nightmare. Sansa had quickly grown up in King’s Landing after her father’s death. She learnt quickly that court and knights were not like the songs, with a little help from Sandor. She had been so terrified of him and the way he spat the truth of the world at her. She would give anything to be snapped at by Sandor again…her tears flowed freely now. When Lord Baelish had taken her that night, her heart broke for Sandor seeing him overcome by the fire like that. Outnumbered and cheated. _They had not been true knights. There are no true knights left._ She sniffed sadly, remembering what Lord Baelish had promised her. 

He’d filled her head with all the same stories again, and with no Sandor around to ground her she had once again played the foolish girl. He’d convinced her that Lord Bolton was an honourable man, a loyal friend of her mother and Robb. Lord Baelish had said they all hoped to match Sansa with Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsay. The way Lord Baelish had described Ramsay, a sweet bastard boy who would someday be the Lord of his great house. She was reminded instantly of Jon, and her heart had warmed at that. He’d said that Ramsay was training to be a knight, and he had taken fancy of Sansa just from what he had heard of her beauty. This wasn’t to say Sansa hadn’t been reluctant; she had been burned before. She knew that sweet boys could turn into horrible monsters. 

And then…well then the Frey wedding had happened. Sansa felt her blood turn cold just thinking about it, her pillowcase turning damp from her heaving sobs. Lord Baelish had said it was her duty to marry Lord Bolton’s son, in honour of her family. She clutched her arms together, holding herself tightly. _Oh, what a stupid little bird she’d been._  


*************************

Sandor rode up the Dreadfort with no fear, his dog head helm firmly in place. With a grim sense of satisfaction, he knew that helm was recognisable anywhere and would guarantee him a certain level of safety. Stranger pressed on before coming to abrupt halt out the front gates of the castle. 

‘Bugger me, is that The Hound?’ the guard in the watchtower called down. 

Sandor lifted his visor and fixed him with his most menacing stare. 

‘Your eyesight is impressive, guard. Inform Lord Bolton I have arrived and wish to speak with him.’ 

‘Nice try, Clegane. My Lord will most certainly be curious as to what you are doing here, so far North. The last word we had after you fled from King’s Landing was that you were dead.’ The guard spat from the tower. 

Sandor watched the guard’s spit fly past him to the ground, his patience wearing thin. The sigil of the flayed man of the Bolton banner swayed in the wind overhead ominously. He inhaled deeply, reminding himself why he was there and what was at stake. He began to recite a very well-rehearsed story he had been over and over during the ride. 

‘Aye, one hears many things during times of war. I am not yet dead, as much as that may disappoint most of Westeros, which I have been whoring and pillaging my way through. I rode with my brother for several sennights, before growing tired of his raids. I have no love for The Mountain. Since leaving King’s Landing, I’ve developed quite a taste for the North. I intend to pledge my sword to House Bolton. From what I hear, there’s a long future in it for me.’ 

The guard eyed him wearily, but Sandor held his gaze fiercely. After a few moments, he shouted for them to open the gate and called for someone named Reek to inform Ramsay of The Hound’s arrival.  
Sandor spurred Stranger forward cautiously, into the courtyard before dismounting and thrusting the reigns into a stable boy’s hands. 

‘Take good care of that horse boy, or you’ll lose your hands,’ he snarled at him. He didn’t like anyone else handling Stranger, but he needed to meet Ramsay hassle free. He made note of the stable the boy took Stranger to however, he may be in need of a quick getaway. A servant greeted him and quickly escorted him to an open dining hall that was empty aside from a couple of serving wenches. Removing his helm and placing it heavily on the table, he took a seat and awaited Ramsay. Sandor eyed the room, where would Sansa be right now? 

Ramsay arrived sooner than Sandor expected. Sandor saw his eyes light up as he eyed The Hound’s helm placed on the long table. He clapped his hands together excitedly. 

‘The Hound!’ he grinned manically. ‘Quite the reputation you’ve built for yourself, Clegane. After what I’ve heard, I am even more fond of hounds. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ 

Sandor heard the slight plea in his voice and decided to change tactics. He got up from the table and looked down at Ramsay, who was at least a foot shorter. ‘Well met, Lord Bolton. I have travelled up North to meet you and see what you could offer me. I tired of my brother and the pillaging of shite towns and camp followers. I’m looking for a challenge. I want to fight real battles and fuck real women,’ he growled, raising his voice at the last statement. He grasped his massive fist tightly for effect.  
Ramsay’s expression was none other than a child’s who had been given his name day present early. 

‘I understand, Hound. That sort of thing does get boring quickly,’ he sympathised, running a hand slowly over Sandor’s helm. ‘There are so many other ways to kill a man, so many other ways to fuck a woman.’ He looked up from the helm slowly, a small smile forming on his wet lips. 

Sandor immediately thought of Sansa and fought the urge not to throw a mailed fist into his cheek. ‘Aye…’ he tried to agree convincingly. ‘If I swore fealty to you, Lord Bolton, is that something you could provide to me? Otherwise mayhap I will take my expertise elsewhere, sell my sword along the road.’ He finished in a bored voice, keeping his expression nonchalant. It worked a treat. He saw a flash of worry flash in Ramsay’s eyes. A wicked smile and a gleam quickly replaced it however. He walked around The Hound slowly, as if sizing him up. 

‘All that time on the road, Clegane…you must have developed quite a thirst,’ he drawled in a low but gleeful tone. It was as if he could barely contain himself. ‘I think I have just the thing to convince you, Hound.’ 

****************************

'Sansa, my little wife…I have a present for you.' Ramsay stated. His voice was dripping with joy, causing Sansa to fill with dread. Anything that made Ramsay this happy would not be good for her. He was practically skipping as he bounded through the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Sansa winced, his sudden entrance had scared her and her back rubbed against the chair. It was covered in fresh blisters from the night before when he had dripped burning candle wax across her back. She shuddered, not wanting to think about what had happened next. Before he had burst in, she had been reading by the fire trying to escape her reality, if only for an hour. Gods, she missed her family. She missed Sandor and how safe she had always felt with him. She quickly banished thoughts of them from her mind, as she knew it would result in fresh tears. Ramsay didn't like when she cried. He only liked it when he was torturing her. Instead, she fixed her expression into what she hoped was a happy look. 

'What is it, my lord?' she tried to stop her bottom lip from shaking. Ramsay would know if she didn’t mean it.

'Get on the bed.' He ordered sternly, yanking her up by the arm and steering her roughly around. 'I want you to be in a certain position when he comes in. I think he'd like it,' he added in an excited whisper. 

Sansa felt like she was going to be sick. _Who was he bringing in? Why was he so excited?_ She fought back fresh tears as he began unlacing her dress impatiently. She flinched under his touch, her freshly burned skin making her feel lightheaded as it rubbed painfully against the material. 

'Stop…you're hurting me,' she sobbed. She couldn't hold it in anymore. The fear of what was going to happen next plagued her. She just wanted to die. She didn't care anymore. Everyone she ever loved or cared about in the world was gone, and she couldn't stand another night with this monster. 

Ramsay gripped both of her shoulders and rubbed them, oddly comforting. 'Now, now Sansa…' he said, dipping his head to meet her eyes. She dared a look back up at him, weary of his sudden kindness. He was a cruel man. As soon as their eyes met, he slapped her directly across the face. Hard. She winced and cried out in pain, but regained her composure quickly. After her beatings in King’s Landing, she’d grown quite accustomed to being hit. It was the other things Ramsay did, she thought shuddering…they were what haunted her. 

‘You are my wife now Sansa. You will do what I say,’ Ramsay said in a low and menacing voice. He was quite terrifying. ‘Now, get on the bed,’ he repeated, voice perking up happily as a slick smile forming on his ugly mouth. Sansa sat down gingerly, all too aware of the bruises and marks across her naked body. He had beaten her all over, except her face. 

‘No, no,’ Ramsay tutted. ‘Not like that, my pretty Northern wife. Turn around.’ 

Sansa gulped. She slowly turned around, coming to rest on her knees instinctively. She was shaking like a leaf. She had no idea what he had in store for her this time. If only she could find a knife, a weapon of some sort. She had never felt such a strong desire to kill someone before. Perhaps her and Arya would get along a little better now. _If I ever see her again._ Sansa’s lip trembled. 

‘Now lean forward, place your hands flat on the bed,’ Ramsay said like a giddy child. Sansa slowly placed two palms shoulder width apart on the mattress, her breasts bouncing forward until she was on all fours. She had never felt more exposed or humiliated with the shame of someone unknown walking in and seeing her like this. Her cheeks burned. Maybe when Ramsay left her for the night when he was finished, she would jump from the window. It would be better than enduring this torture day in and day out. 

She heard Ramsay practically bound to the heavy wooden door, a creak as he opened it. 

‘She’s ready now,’ he croaked to the stranger, and Sansa could almost see his chilling, toothy grin. A tear spilled down Sansa’s cheek onto the mattress as she heard the sound of heavy, slow footsteps. Gods, the man making them caused the bed she was laying on to shake. She was terrified as she saw a gigantic shadow form beside the bed in the firelight. Sansa couldn’t help herself, she glimpsed a quick look over her shoulder to see who her torturer would be for the night. 

The whites of the man’s eyes gleamed terribly as the light from the fire flashed on a horrifically scarred face. He was standing as solid and strong as ever, an unreadable expression on his face. The Hound had entered the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To sum up this chapter, Sandor is a badass. And he's finally reunited with his little bird <3
> 
> Warning for mentions of past abuse, please do not read if you don't feel comfortable to go ahead. 
> 
> Any feedback or comments are much appreciated!

Sansa could have choked from the emotions she felt upon seeing Sandor standing there. Relief. Exhaustion. Panic. Confusion. Before her face could betray her, Sandor shot her a warning look. _Keep it together, girl._ She could almost hear his rasp in her ear. She could have cried, fainted, thrown up from the way her heart burst at seeing him. But she managed to maintain a neutral expression as she turned away from him, heart rate beating a million miles per hour. Ramsay skipped gleefully around the bed, a manic smile glued to his face. 

'What do you think about my pretty wife, Hound?'

Sandor fought to keep his expression nonchalant, a stranger looking in would have thought him bored with the whole ordeal. He allowed his eyes to roam over Sansa's naked form on the bed, her back to him. The sun had well and truly set by now, plunging the room into darkness but he could still make out her small frame. He felt his blood boil as he saw deep, red welts lashed across her skin in the firelight. There were numerous cuts and bruises across her dainty shoulders, and scars across the back of her thighs. He noticed her shaking all over and he nearly broke right there and then and killed the cunt. There was actual bitemarks across one of her buttocks, he noticed with disgust. Sandor fought to compose himself, this was _Ramsay Bolton_. A fucking madman. Surrounded by his men in the Dreadfort. Sandor would have to be very careful, and strike when the time was right. 

Ramsay mistakenly took his silence for some kind of disapproval or discontentment. 

'Ahh, but of course. You have already witnessed the one and only Sansa Stark in the capital. I suppose she is a lot less pretty now,' he pouted, a genuine look of disappointment crossing his plump features. 'A Bolton deserves only the best.' His eyes turned dark, as if Sansa were a used toy that he didn't get to play with first. 

Sandor chanced him a cool look before replying, 'Aye, I knew the Stark bitch in King's Landing. Pretty little thing. It pleases me she's now your wife,' he said through gritted teeth. This was killing him, but he played the part convincingly. It frightened him how easy it was to become The Hound again. He supposed it would always somehow be a part of him. Gregor had made sure of that he day he pressed his face into the fire. 

'Joffrey never let me have a taste of the girl. He didn't like to share, so I was a good dog and never touched her. I've wanted to fuck her bloody for many moons now.' Even though it was true, and he had said it to her in the past, Sandor still inwardly flinched at his words. Right here, in this room, with the little bird so frightened and hurt, he realised how vulgar he had been. Another stab of self-hatred coursed through him. _Keep it together, dog. You need to get her out of here. You're not one of the precious knights from her stories but you can still protect her._

Ramsay positively beamed at his words, clapping his hands together excitedly. 

'Mmm…there's nothing I like to witness more than a starved dog finally eating. There's something so…' his eyes lit up, 'rabid about it.' Ramsay licked his lips over a wicked smile. 'It appears your luck has changed, Hound. I am not so greedy as our beloved boy King. I have your bitch in heat for you waiting!' he squealed excitedly. 

Sandor had to look away from his gleaming eyes. There wasn't a lot that phased him after being Joffrey's sworn shield…but he had to admit Ramsay revolted him. He definitely took the cake as far as perverted fucks went. He was starting to make Joff look like the Maiden. 

'Go on, then. Unleash on her. I've been saving her maidenhead for a special occasion like this,’ Ramsay grinned. Sandor bristled at that, he thought Ramsay would have wasted no time in claiming her. ‘Who better to break her in than the ferocious Hound, Sandor Clegane. I bet you could really do some damage.' It was sickening how animate he got while speaking about hurting her, and Sandor had to grit his teeth even harder as Ramsay moved to sit beside her on the bed and patted her backside invitingly. _What a vile cunt. I'm really going to enjoy killing this one._

He heard Sansa whimper and he wanted nothing more than to gather her up in his arms. Surely she didn't believe he would go through with something like this? But then again…maybe she did, he thought with a tightening of his chest. He wasn't exactly the gentlest of men, and though he tried with her it was in his nature to be rough. Yet as she kneeled there stark naked, Sandor in clear view of the side of her teats from his angle, he felt no arousal at the sight of her like this. Her hair fell down her back in a loose braid, and while her hips and waist had filled out beautifully in the time they had been apart, he felt sick being in this room with the thought of what Ramsay wanted him to do. 

Realising he couldn't stall much longer, he took a couple of quick strides forward and grasped her hips. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle. He couldn't raise suspicion with Ramsay's eyes glued to him. He was, in the eyes of many, _The Hound._ A dog. And that’s all he would ever be. Sandor's large hands forced Sansa to arch her back further and lift her hips higher to press directly against his crotch. He heard her let out a little gasp as he reached forward and grabbed her braid. He pulled on it, this time hard enough to get her whole body arched against his chest, one hand still placed firmly on her hip as he gave one thrust against her, grunting loudly for Ramsay's pleasure. 

Sandor could almost feel the little bird's heart banging in her chest. _Just trust me girl._ He wished she could read his mind. _It will all be over soon._ He thrust again, unable to stop his body from becoming aroused in the proximity and warmth of her. He also had his blood up knowing he was going to kill this little prick. Ramsay's eyes were wide, his mouth half open in glee as he looked on. He had leaned forward considerably in his eagerness. Right within stabbing distance. 

'Yes! Mount her dog, I want to see her scream!’ 

This was it. Sandor reached down to unlace his breeches as if to pull out his manhood, but his hand clasped the dagger he had placed in his waistline instead. Sansa’s body kept his hand and the dagger from view. He reached down, as if to thrust inside of her with his cock but instead pressed the coolness of the dagger against her inner thigh to let her know what was happening. 

Sansa gasped loudly, which was perfect timing as Ramsay shrieked with glee and made to move to stand beside Sandor. He apparently wanted a better view. _Sick fuck._

Sandor turned slowly to stare directly into Ramsay’s eyes. ‘Funny that, I want to see _you_ scream.’ 

A confused second of realisation flashed across Ramsay’s face before Sandor sunk his dagger hard into his throat. To be certain of his death, he withdrew the dagger and gripped the back of Ramsay’s head holding it in place before cleanly slitting his throat. Blood pooled from Ramsay’s mouth as he spluttered in shock to his death. Sandor only wished he could have killed the cunt slower to prolong his misery, but they had to get out of there. He let Ramsay fall forward in his large arms, careful to be as quiet as possible as he laid him on the bed beside Sansa. 

Upon seeing him, Sansa’s immediate reaction was to scream. Sandor quickly clasped his hand over her mouth, sheathing his dagger. He sat down on the featherbed and gathered her shaking body into his arms. He held her tightly, rocking her like a child in his strong arms. 

‘Shhh, little bird. It’s alright now. You’re alright now.’ 

At his words, Sansa sobbed against his hand, tears flowing freely and splashing onto Sandor’s forearm. He held her naked form as he continued rocking her gently, stroking her hair as she buried her face into his chest. A few minutes passed, and Sandor realised that he had never held anyone like this. Had never cared for anyone like this. A bubble of fury built in his gut thinking of what she had had to endure. He focused on it, the anger becoming a fuel to harness to ensure they both got out of here alive. Eventually, Sansa calmed down enough for him to remove his hand. 

‘We need to get you dressed and out of here girl, we don’t have long,’ he rasped in an urgent whisper. 

Sansa nodded, determined. _Strong little wolf._ Sandor leaned down and kissed her forehead. She was safe now.


End file.
